August 1, 2016:

Oklahoma City looks oh so pretty. At 1am when the taxi driver charges $20 for a 3.5 mile ride, although the meter reads $7.50, and all the hotels are mysteriously full except the first one I call after breaking free from airline customer support.

In the morning there are joggers along the river. I take the hotel shuttle back and the driver's cool. We talk about Will Rogers, and Woodie Guthrie, and Route 66. He's older, black, and a source of local lore. I regret the ride's so short.

In the air I think of another time I was there. The band played an underground club that was literally underground. A famous L.A. Rockabilly guy turned up and offered me cocaine. There was a blues band from Greece and an after show party at their house. Somebody dosed me with X and I was shocked that the only bathroom was monopolized by a fat greasy coke dealer trying to get into the pants of a very lovely blonde, with the door closed, and a long line waiting. I asked the neighbor if I could sleep on her couch and in the afternoon caught up with the band. We left by van.

This trip was way better.